


The Slowing of Decay

by heartstone



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Second Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 13:42:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19769392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartstone/pseuds/heartstone
Summary: He seemed beautiful beyond the time he had now wandered in, lost in the past but doomed to continue onwards as a golden memory of the splendor of the Beginning before even the Shadow fell from might.***Celebrimbor comforts Annatar.





	The Slowing of Decay

Deepest of night fell upon Eregion, and the great vault of heaven waxed into shades of richest blue found only within the innermost facets of sapphire: a vast domed empyrean which cupped the celestial waves of indigo and lapis, scattered with star-pearls and foaming with the dark, vivid clouds. Borne from these heights a light mist fell, the soft breath of the strewn stars like weightless crystals which adorned all the earth in a pale shimmer and perfumed the airs with a heavy somnolence. Cooled by its descent, the vapours beaded on the crystal panes of the windows of the city, and there shone like polished moonstone, and fogged the glass with swirls of gleaming quartz.

Such was how the mists seemed to Celebrimbor, who, looking from his book, admired the pattern of moire gossamer which embroidered the glass and twinkled in glints of many colours as the light from the candles in the room danced on their wicks. As was often the case, Celebrimbor was immune to the drowsiness that late-night and gentle rain often brought- but the invigorating coolness, the sounds of light rainfall like many tiny bells of crystal, and the hiss and snap of the firewood in the hearth did not leave him unaffected. Indeed, he took a deep breath to pull in a draught of the crisp airs suffused with the homey fragrance of pine and the familiar scent of disturbed linen. And, of course, the enchantment woven about _him._

Celebrimbor looked down at him, turning to him almost without thought as he was made aware of the fragrance that fell about his sleeping form. The Maia lay on his side, curled against him so that his head rested upon a silken cushion in his lap. Like an ember he was, a dormant inferno caught smoldering, sending unseen spirals of incense into the air and casting a shifting glow of gold about him. Celebrimbor smiled to himself, as if pleased with the very thought of the Maia as a brilliant ember, pulsing with red like holly berries and sending forth a glitter of air-borne cinders like powdered gold imbued with luminous beams of light the colour of sunstone. Such was how he beheld the glow from within the Maia, and the light which escaped his Fana to bathe the mundane world in an unrivaled radiance.

Gently he began to stroke the waves of hair which had spilled onto his lap; a coverlet finer than silk. He hummed at the feel of it as he ran his calloused fingertips through the untangled curls, like many smooth ribbons of water running over twisting falls of small height, warmed by the sun in midsummer and whose polished waves immersed the hand that dipped within its waters in a glossy caress. Joy rose up within him- for who else had been so blessed, save himself and Thingol only? He let out a puff of soft laughter, watching the curls spring back to their lazy, loose coil of burnished copper as he brushed them by. He was glad, most of all, that Annatar seemed to be finding himself again.

When the Maia had first come to Eregion, Celebrimbor could discern, with great difficulty, a wound of guilt and despair that lie hidden beyond even the light of that ember in his core. It was with this glimpse, of that dire wound in danger of festering, unexpected on so divine a Fëa that the Elf-Lord decided he would welcome the Maia as a permanent guest of the highest honour in Eregion. Was this what the others had seen, a small glimpse of torn Fëa like broken flesh and clotted blood? Was this what had made Gil-Galad and Galadriel shun him from their doors? He was aghast at the very thought! After the War, Celebrimbor would suffer no elf be turned away to wander and fade, no matter their past: for Eregion was a place of second chances, one which he had taken for himself and his family name also. Why should he then turn the Maia away? Many who had assaulted the doors of Angband had been changed irrevocably, why would the Maiar- who had gazed into the deepest pits of that Hell to cleanse it- be any different? Nay! Celebrimbor would not shun him for that glimpse of pain, but would staunch the wound and heal it as best he could.

He learned quickly Annatar’s temperaments and eccentricities, and he had many of these moods and oddities. The Maia would not ask for help, but Celebrimbor could feel the desire of it radiating from him like ripples of heat; the Ainu’s spirit nearly begged for a reprieve in its all-consuming guilt, buried under the physical guise of a Noldorin elf, aloof with all but his arcane knowledge. It had taken decades, but he had won the Maia’s trust, and it seemed to him that the wound might have just been saved from festering.

He sighed softly, brushing a lock away from Annatar’s face, lost in thought. It was nearly half a century now, since Celebrimbor had discovered the Maia’s horrible night terrors, and the beginning of their sleeping routine. Though neither he nor Annatar needed much sleep, every time they did succumb to slumber it was a wordless custom for the other to sit up and keep watch- more for the sake of Annatar, so that his terrors could be soothed before they began in earnest. In the time that they had done this, Annatar seemed to have changed forms as he slept, becoming even as he now lay. At first it had startled the elf, for there was no small difference from the Fana that Annatar had arrived in, and the one that he seemed to be most comfortable in. Not once Celebrimbor had wondered what made him choose to come in a guise different than the one most natural to him, but he was too glad to see the Maia at ease, and overcome by the intimacy of being allowed to behold such a form, ere he changed back in the morning.

It suited him more anyhow, Celebrimbor thought. He broke from the haze of his thoughts to look back down at the Maia to memorize the very shape of his lips, or the slant of his gently closed eyes, or the mottled gold that freckled his warm skin. Much to his surprise, however, he was being watched. The glow from Annatar's eyes was piercing, but not harsh, like the light of fireflies in the black nighttime, flickering in and out of notice and thought, but ever present. It filtered through heavy lashes like light through feathers or the fanning leaves of a fern. But the light was trembling, and stained a troubled wan. He smoothed a curl at his temple.

“Forgive me, but did I wake you?” he asked softly, placing the forgotten book and marked page number, which had been kept by his wedged finger, onto the table next to him. The rain pattered soft like chimes and the fire seemed to exude more warmth as if to comfort the Maia who was somewhat akin to it.

He did not answer, and that was answer enough: for Annatar did not ask for help.

Celebrimbor slowly moved, coaxing him to sit up slightly so that he could slide down to lie on the bed and under the heavy mantle, enwrapping him within the folds of soft fabric and his own arms. The Maia was slim and modest in size, but his body was hot as if with fever, flushed in the memory of summer roses with all their thorns. His fingers indeed clutched to him like those woody barbs, though his spirit be sweet-soft like the velvet of petals and his arms tangled around him like the vines of a bower. He held back onto him as Annatar buried his face against his neck, shuddering at the breath that warmed his skin there, in the crook that cradled the Maia’s unnamed conflict. Celebrimbor's chin rested over the crown of his head, pillowed in the curls he so admired before, and he inhaled carefully, so as to not be lost within the honey and spice woven in those tresses.

For some minutes they lay, and Celebrimbor tried to even his breath so that the Maia might feel the rise and fall of his chest, the rhythm like a tide, a pattern which often soothed him. The rain died down so that the music of many small chimes gave way to the symphony of leaves like the sails of many crisp canvas flags, flickering brief rumored standards of green that were hidden by the deep blue of night. From the hearth there was a loud pop of wood, and Celebrimbor paused to look down upon the Maia.

He was resisted, and Annatar only buried himself deeper into the swathe, but his movement made aware the slight dampness of the elf’s night clothes about his broad shoulders. The Maia shuddered but made no sound. Celebrimbor knew that he did not wish to be seen, so vulnerable, so _raw,_ as if his physical form had become transparent and the glow of embers could be rifled through so that their secrets be uncovered. But Celebrimbor had no desire for such uncouth seizures, and moreover, his heart was moved to sympathy, not the overmastering of the Maia’s very thought: it was not a game to him. If he was to answer all his own questions about his mysterious guest, it would be with honour gifted only by consent.

He buried his hand in the thickness of the copper curls, stroking them until the Maia shuddered in some security. Carefully, Celebrimbor chose his next words:

“You know that you may unburden your heavy thoughts upon me,” he murmured, “And I will keep it, locked in uttermost confidence.”

Annatar made no answer, and he would have stayed silent had not an instinct within him counseled that his words, though unanswered, still comforted the Maia. Perhaps it was not in the practice of speaking the heavy things that Annatar needed, but the mere idea that he _could,_ if he so wished, tell the Elf-Lord all the churning turmoils within him. So he continued.

“I would want you only to know that such words as you might say would not be to soothe some desire in me or some surreptitious scheme, nor that such words would I delight in, to hear of your pain. And though I cannot prove to you that I only wish to hear of them for your own relief, and not mine, I would voice plainly my intentions. I only wish to help you bear this burden lain upon you, and if I cannot help you bear it- as it is often only the fate of the bearer to carry such burdens- then to help as I may strengthen you to carry it.”

He was unsure if what he had said made any sense: but he had spoken truly, and from the depth of his own Fëa which rose like a sea of soft rippling silver. For many moments neither of them moved and the wind seemed to die down and grow quiet, and the rain became so fine a mist that it made no noise as if fell and swirled on the glass. For a few panic-stricken moments he feared that he had indeed said something wrong, and that his instinct had misled him. But it was not so, and the Maia pulled back from the tight embrace slowly.

His cheeks were stained slightly from parched rivulets of tears, for the heat from his flesh dried them even as they ran down his face, and none seemed to make it to the shapely line of his jaw. His eyes shimmered the tears held within them, but no more fell and he looked up upon the face of the elf: his hair dark and luminous as galvorn, skin pale and clear as the vessel of Tilion before it was assaulted, white-argent as if wrought of mithril. But his eyes were of grey-blue as of the light of Telperion before it was felled, and the pools of dew which had collected under its fair branches seemed to live on in his eyes, pure and clear. Indeed, in those eyes the Maia could not find a hidden shadow of any kind, cool and open as a spring from the white snow of the mountains.

A desire arose in him swiftly: to tell this elf everything, from the moment he was made eons and eons ago, to Almaren and the mighty Shadow that he had loved, to the long years he had made war with the kingdoms of Beleriand, to the agony of parting from He who had been _everything,_ the countless lonely years of wandering in the East, and his coming to Eregion. He yearned with a fierceness he had never felt, one which made him want to crumple and weep, which made him want to diminish or to forfeit himself to the mercy of the Valar- to stumble to Manwë’s very throne and beg to be sent down into the Void with his Master. He knew he could do no such thing.

Instead he leaned up carefully, wrapping his arms about the elf’s shoulders and parting his lips to kiss him. He did not think, for it was too painful to be sent back to those nightmares wherein he relived his parting from Melkor, and the wrenching of their Fëar. For whatever ironic twist of fate this was, Fëanor’s grandson was the only thing he had ever found who could dispel his grief with an embrace of silver. The touch of his fingertips against his skin, calloused and worn with war and forge-work, shimmered the nerves they touched and sent sweeping trills of pleasure along his flesh, rising his fine hairs in their wake and pervading deep within him, a coolness which soothed his very bones and submerged him in a bath of _peace._ O! How his soul ached for the mere glimpse of such peace as this Elf-Lord spoke of!

Celebrimbor's lips were soft, unlike his hands, and they received him gently, carefully. But he did not want to be touched in murmurs and breezes; he wanted his heavy weight and hard muscle upon him, and his firm but precise hands to work him masterfully like he worked the metal in the forges. He moaned desperately against his lips as he pressed harshly against them, thinking of Celebrimbor, the strong bulge of his biceps with hammer raised, poised to strike a piece of hot metal that glowed fervently with anticipation of whatever shape the Elf-Lord saw to fashion it. He imagined the light of many tongues of fire, and how they would dance and make undulating shadows along the planes of his muscles: the regal curve of his trapezius, and the latissimus dorsi as is followed the slope towards his narrow hips.

The Maia’s hands darted under the shadows of the elf’s dark hair and wove his fingers into them, tugging them to guide his body close as they could become, fit neatly against one another. He pressed his hand, flat and large, between the shoulder blades of Annatar’s back, pressed him firmly against him, the other cupping his jaw so that the pad of his thumb could stroke the crest of his high cheekbones as he gave him the kiss he wanted. Unyielding but not harsh he guided their movements, sucking his bottom lip until it swelled at his attentions, and nipping at him when he sought to lead instead: Annatar often sought control, and it was difficult to let him relinquish it in anything he did, great or small. But Celebrimbor was not blind to the relief that shone from the Maia’s face when he allowed the elf to guide him instead, and such was this moment. A sigh escaped the Maia, and he relaxed against his body, letting it ground him.

This was not their first kiss, but it was the first that forebode of other things, and Celebrimbor was cautious. Annatar was changeable in mood as the flames that wreathed his Fëa and he did not wish to press him too far. But he seemed to crave this more than even the elf had, this intimacy of touch, and he was eager to meet every press of his lips with one of his own, and he seemed to purr with static, cinders glowing in his hair and light igniting on the ridges of his irises. Celebrimbor broke away for a moment, pressing his nose against his freckled cheek and pressing a hot, wet kiss to the corner of his mouth, nuzzling him in a careful playfulness. They pressed their foreheads together, and their breath warmed each other’s lips, and they moaned softly to feel the crackling tremor their breaths created along the sore flesh.

Annatar pulled away, reluctantly, and the elf felt his heart jump in his chest, throbbing. But the Maia held his hand between his own, soft and warm, and kissed the calluses on his fingertips so that the press of his lips tingled down the digits and branched throughout him with a suddenness like lightening, white-hot. Celebrimbor watched him let his hand fall, and he watched him part the blankets around him. He watched the form of the Maia’s hands, long nimble fingers dancing along the fabric. He watched the trembling of the Maia’s lips, glistening and crimson with a bloom of blood just under the surface. He watched the light scatter upon his cheeks from its source deep within his eyes, and watched as the Maia found the hem of the gown he wore, and brought it over his head.

The glow about the Maia shone brighter as he uncovered himself. Gold shimmered the air with the rings of heat that warped about him, and he seemed to Celebrimbor as polished bronze warmed by the sun, cast by a hand more capable than even his own. It seemed (for in truth, it was), as if a veil had been pulled back and he was beholding some great work wrought in the days of old before even the Lamps fell and hurts were known to Arda. Kneeling on the bed, lithe and heavenly he sat, the pink of dawn gathered in the valleys of his neck, on his cheeks, his freckles glowing like the still hidden sun alights the clouds before it pours its light over the horizon. He seemed beautiful beyond the time he had now wandered in, lost in the past but doomed to continue onwards as a golden memory of the splendor of the Beginning before even the Shadow fell from might.

Annatar reached out and grabbed for his hand again, wanting to be touched by more than a gaze, no matter how lovingly it was upon his every aspect. He kissed it again, but this time he tilted his head to press his quivering lips against the palm, and sweat beaded his temples sweetly, and his hair tickled against his own chest and Celebrimbor’s arm. Still holding his hand to his mouth, hair draping his eyes and vulnerability from view, the Maia whispered so soft that the elf could fancy it the wind: _“Touch me, Telpë, so that I may be at peace for a time.”_

Celebrimbor sat up and kissed him, and Annatar let his grief fade for a time, beneath the caress of gentle silver.

**Author's Note:**

> I have been thinking a lot about Celebrimbor, I'm not sure why. He has certainly found his way into my heart, though. Alas! If only his steadfast love had won out in the end! Perhaps if Mairon had confessed everything to Celebrimbor their fates would have been different.  
> I think the knowledge that Melkor was suffering somewhere in the Void and he was still on Middle-Earth, finding some happiness and comfort, would have steeled him to act in evil against Eregion which for a while had been home to him. I do wonder how Melkor would feel of this, possessive as he is, but also not desiring to see Mairon in pain.  
> The title is from the most insightful preface of the Silmarillion: "The chief power (of all the rings alike) was the prevention or slowing of decay (i.e. 'change' viewed as a regrettable thing), the preservation of what is desired or loved, or its semblance. . ."  
> Note: Celebrimbor knows that Mairon lost someone important to him in the War of Wrath, and he knows that he was involved in the War. He does not know, however, that this important person was Melkor, nor does he know that he was on the side of Angband in the War and not the Host of the Valar.  
> ***


End file.
